Arterial
by H.T.Marie
Summary: Dean finds out the hard way why tempered glass was invented. The old stuff tended to split apart in huge shards when a guy went flying through it. Hurt Dean. Awesome Sam. Comment Fic. Complete.


A/N: Just a little comment fic I threw together for a prompt on the hoodie_time Dean focused H/C meme. Fairly plotless Dean whumpage with awesome!Sam. I think the original prompt was for clawed-up Dean, but I chose another method of blood letting. A word of warning: Some foul language, as it is Dean POV, and for those of you who like woobie!Dean, you won't find that here. Also, I don't own these guys or make any money from writing about them.

**Arterial**

He doesn't remember when they stopped making windows out of non-tempered glass, but he figures, being that he's sprawled against an overgrown cherry tree surrounded by long, jagged shards instead of tiny, harmless cubes, that it was some time after the last owners stopped renovations on this old house. The cherry blossoms he shook loose on impact give the broken glass a sort of fluffy appearance, all soft petals and squashed... pistils.

Flowers have pistils. For some reason, that second grade science factoid is the funniest thing to pop into Dean's mind in ages. It bloops in like one of those bubbles in a tar pit, slow to the surface, stretching toward bursting with an oily rainbow sheen swirling over it, and then just a random hole in a surface of black that drags his consciousness down into the murk.

Pistils...

Pistils...

Pistils...

His gets stuck on that, can't shake the image of a daisy wearing a stem holster, twirling a 9mm, and waiting for the verdict, 'loves me,' or 'loves me not.' Badass daisy and its pistil. Heh. And then, "Ow," because laughing kinda hurts.

Thoughts are heavy in his skull, dropping like bricks, and his chin is reluctant to lift off his chest as he bobble heads his attention toward the sound of Sam's boots. A mash and crunch soundtrack accompanies the approaching footsteps, the sound not unlike the stomp, stomp of winter boots through a crust of frozen snow. Dean gapes up, wondering when the hell Sam got so tall, his eyes squinting like he's trying to pinpoint the location of a bird in the top of a tree. He's blinded by the glare of sunlight, even though he's sure it's been raining all day, can't find anything but a silhouette of Sam in a tunnel of too bright, too bright. He brings a hand up to shield his eyes, a wisecrack about being pollinated by pink pistils poised on the tip of his tongue.

Something drips off his hand and into his eyes. It stings like a bitch, and he hisses then coughs as a searing jolt spasms his throat closed ahead of the words.

He's still coughing and wondering at the bright red dapples blooming on the carpet of flower petals when Sam catches the hand Dean didn't realize he was waving in a 'give a hand up' gesture and presses it out to the side.

"Dean!"

Sam presses him back against the tree trunk with a palm to the sternum and won't let Dean wipe the crud from his eyes no matter how much he wriggles against the grip on his wrist.

"Stop. Stop it," Sam says. "Dean! Let me see."

He wants to say no one's fucking stopping him from gaping, just keep his touchy-feely paws off, but he can't stop coughing. His throat's raw, and every breath scrapes, burns, tears like he's sucking pyroclastics from a volcanic crater. The tree is solid at his back, but narrow, and Dean's shoulder probably shouldn't bend as far back as it is while Sam keeps his wrist pinned behind him. Dean tips his head back, the first ripple in a full body contortion that's half gasp for breath and half an attempt to write out of Sam's grasp. Sam grunts and replaces the hand on Dean's wrist with a knee, and if something crunches, they pay it no more attention than a snapping twig.

Heat washes through Dean like he's just opened an oven door. A bead of sweat rolls into the divot above his top lip and stops there, an itch he can't scratch. He brains himself against the tree trunk in an effort to shake it loose and succeeds—a hollow victory given the dull echo of the blow inside his skull.

When Sam's face swims in and out of focus as through a smeared glass, he's pale, a grey pallor with green around the edges. Dean doesn't remember his brother being quite so squeamish, but he's too busy trying to breathe, or at least get a hand up to his throat to massage out the spasms.

"No. No-n-no-no-no. Just stay still, all right. I gotcha." Things start to tilt sideways. "Dean! Look a me, okay? Right here."

Dean does in time to see Bobby lurch up from behind Sam, _his_ boots eerily silent over the ground. Or maybe Dean just can't hear over his scraping breaths, now with a wet gurgle at the crest and trough of each one that makes him want to swallow convulsively. He tries to twist in Sam's grip so he can hawk up whatever's stuck in his craw, but Sam's not only strong, he seems to have sprouted extra appendages as well.

Somehow through the fry vat sizzle in his ears, Dean realizes that's Bobby's boot on his other hand, and not a Sammy homage to tentacle porn. That's a relief in as much as being pinned to the glass-strewn ground and blanketed in cherry blossoms can be. That should really hurt, it seems, and Bobby should probably be making sounds when he moves his lips. What, the dude can't even disconnect his phone call and give a guy a hand up? But Bobby's pointedly looking away, at the mailbox, the street sign, the gawdy plastic Easter egg tree in the neighbor's yard, and moving his lips without making any sound. Everything's numb and muted. Dean feels like he's screaming and no one can hear him, like he's deep underwater and sinking fast.

It's just a little blood for fuck's sakes. Dean's never seen such a bunch of squeamish pansies in his life. He's been cut up way worse than this before. A little more first aid and a little less drama would be nice about now.

Sam releases the weight from Dean's chest and turns Dean's chin front and center.

"Right here. Look at me." Dean tries to nod, but Sam's fingers tighten on his jaw bone. Between that, and the shortness of breath, the crushing restraint on both his arms, Dean feels trapped, claustrophobic. His boots scramble for purchase in the litter of glass shards and crushed flowers, and he bucks up, only to collapse back in a heap again, the edges of his vision darkening so all he sees is Sam. For a second, it seems like that might fade out, too, but the image shakes like one of those old box televisions with a loose picture tube, and Sam pats Dean's chin until he comes back into focus again.

"Hey, hey, look at me. Just stay with me, all right. Help's on the way."

He doesn't need help. He needs them to let him move. The bends in the tree trunk grind against the knobs of his spine, making it even harder to breathe, and mashing his wrist bones into the dirt the way Bobby and Sam are, can't be very sterile for the cuts on his arms. No, this kind of help he does not need, and he'd say as much if he could just clear his throat.

"Don't try to talk," Sam says. By this point he's straddling Dean's thighs. Fucker weighs a ton.

In the distance a siren wails, and no matter how much Sam weighs, Dean's not waiting here for an ambulance when Sam can just stitch him up back at the motel. He redoubles his efforts to throw Sam off, but Sam clamps down harder.

"Dean! Cut it out! Just hang in there, okay?"

But Dean's pissed, ballistic, and if he could just clear his head, he's sure he has a reversal for this move somewhere in his bag of wrestling tricks.

"Dean! Look at me. You have to stay still." Sam blinks as a fresh dusting of red speckles his forehead, making the rest of his face look even paler in contrast. He sags a little, eyes darting from Bobby and back down to Dean like he's searching for an answer they don't give him. Dean uses the moment of distraction to buck up again, jars Sam enough to get a knee up between them, and even though Dean knows he's crushing his future nieces and nephews, Sam doesn't budge. Instead, his head tilts a little to the side as if following the roll of his eyes into his head, then his jaw sets firmly and Sam's grip on Dean's chin tightens even further.

Heh. That's more like it.

"Dean, if you don't sit still and wait for the ambulance to get here, I'm taking pictures of you with all these flowers in your hair and sending them to everyone we know. You got that?"

Okay, so that's really... random? Lame? Uncalled for? He wouldn't really, would he? And Dean's stuck on that, perplexed into paralysis. Paralysis of analysis. He's cold now. Shivering in his bones. Wet, like it's raining again. It might be. He can't hear it over the sizzle in his ears that corresponds to the tingling in his fingers and toes. Sam's lips continue to move, his grip steady, but Dean can't hear him anymore. He startles when the paramedics suddenly appear in the tunnel of his vision, bright yellow coats and bundles of gear, the whole scene a smeared mirage on a backdrop of waxed paper. He can't tell how many of them there are. There seem to be half a dozen from the way they appear and disappear at random from this side and that one. It's all too much, and Dean feels himself slipping, his vision narrowing even further. He barely sees the mask before it presses over his mouth and nose, but the next breath feels better, cooler.

"You haven't touched the object?" a voice asks, the face lost as Dean's eyelids slip closed.

"No." Sam says. "We've been trying to keep him from pulling it out."

"You did the right thing. Probably saved his life."

And that's the last Dean hears before he finally slips under.

xxxx

"Sam," Dean rasps, "Will you hand me that button?"

Sam lurches to alert from his slouched position in the hospital chair beside Dean's bed. Oh, yeah, Dean's not really supposed to be talking. They can't be serious about that, though. He doesn't see how talking is any more aggravating to the nick in his windpipe than, say, breathing, and he doesn't hear anyone tell him to stop doing that.

"Uh, sure," Sam stammers. "Why? Do you need a nurse? Is it something I can get?"

"Yeah," Dean says, "You can give me the button so I can call the nurse myself. Or should I just yell?"

"I can..." Sam starts.

"Sam. The button."

Sam hands him the call button, propping it between Dean's thumb and the brace covering his wrist and hand. Dean presses it with a grimace. "I can't believe you broke my wrist."

"You had a shard of glass in your neck. I was trying to keep you from pulling it out."

"Well, you know, you could've just said that instead of going all cave man on my ass. If you've got a bondage button you need pressed, I can probably set you up with…"

"I was trying to keep you calm."

"And how'd that work for you?" Dean asks, noting, not with small satisfaction, the stiff way Sam shifts in the chair.

"Kept you from dying of an arterial bleed."

"Yeah, well, no more abandoned houses with angry poltergeists. They can throw all the furniture they want through plate glass windows. More power to 'em."

The nurse comes in, a plump, middle-aged woman who looks like she's past ready for her shift to be over.

"You need something?" she asks, her voice pleasant, if tired.

"Yeah," Dean says. "Sorry to bother you, but could you bring my brother here another ice pack?"

"Sure," she says, stifling a smirk when Sam squirms in his chair and dislodges the current blue gel pack from his lap so it falls to the ground with a plop. She shuffles out of the room.

Sam's face is bright red when he says, "I think I liked you better when you were unconscious."

"Right," Dean says, already tired again. Blood loss is a bitch. He'd prefer a hangover any day. "Because you would've asked for that yourself instead of just keeping us both awake with your grunting and groaning. Princess."

Sam looks ready to bite back when the nurse returns and tosses him the ice pack with a wink.

"There you go, son."

"Thanks." Sam carefully settles the cold pack over the zipper of his jeans and slides down in the chair with a sigh of relief.

"You're welcome," Dean yawns.

Arterial bleeds, broken wrists, and near death experiences on top of a hypovolemic headache all taken into account, he really thinks he got the better end of the deal this time. Somehow, their current predicament strikes Dean as the perfect opportunity to use the term 'pistil whipped,' but he's too tired and too safe to do anything more than sleep.

The End

A/N: I know some of you will hate that ending, but I think it's fitting. Show never takes these things as seriously as we do. Thanks for reading.


End file.
